“You have lived a traitor's, not a soldier's life,” said Berkeley, in an insulting tone. “A soldier's life is devoted to his king and country; yours to a rebel and to treason. You shall die the death of a traitor.” “Well, then, I have done,” said Hansford, with a sigh, “and must look to Him alone for mercy, who can make the felon's gallows as bright a pathway to happiness, as the field of glory.” Many a cheek flushed with indignation at the refusal of the governor to grant this last petition of a brave man. A murmur of dissatisfaction arose from the crowd, and even some sturdy loyalists were heard to mutter, “shame.” The other members of the court were seen to confer together, and to remonstrate with the governor. “'Fore God, no,” said Berkeley, in a whisper to his advisers. “Think of the precedent it will establish. Traitor he has lived, and as far as my voice can go, traitor he shall die. I suppose the sheep-killing hound, and the egg-sucking cur, will next whine out their request to be shot instead of hung.” So great was the influence of Berkeley, over the minds of the court, that, after a feeble remonstrance, the petition of the prisoner was rejected. Old Beverley alone, was heard to mutter in the ear of Philip Ludwell, that it was a shame to deny a brave man a soldier's death, and doom him to a dog's fate. “And for all this,” he added, “its a damned hard lot, and blast me, but I think Hansford to be worth in bravery and virtue, fifty of that painted popinjay, Bernard, whose cruelty is as much beyond his years as his childish vanity is beneath them.” “Well, gentlemen, I trust you are now satisfied,” said Berkeley. “Sheriff, remove your prisoner, and,” looking angrily around at the malecontents, “if necessary, summon an additional force to assist you.” The officer, however, deemed no such precaution necessary, and the hapless Hansford was conducted back to his cell under the same guard that brought him thence; there to await the execution on the morrow of the fearful sentence to which he had been condemned. CHAPTER XLVI. _Isabella._ “Yet show some pity. _Angelo._ I show it most of all when I show justice.” _Measure for Measure._ That evening Sir William Berkeley was sitting in the private room at the tavern, which had been fitted up for his reception. He had strictly commanded his servants to deny admittance to any one who might wish to see him. The old man was tired of counsellors, advisers, and petitioners, who harassed him in their attempt to curb his impatient ire, and he was determined to act entirely for himself. He had thus been sitting for more than an hour, looking moodily into the fire, without even the officious Lady Frances to interfere with his reflections, when a servant in livery entered the room.